The cross that I bear
by kuriozum
Summary: This isn't a story. It's little talk - F!Hawke & Anders


'Anders?'

The night came on over immersed in a constant chaos Kirkwall. Violets and various shades of pink danced on the sky, seeing rests of the setting sun off under a line of horizon; stars gleamed with a distant glow, and waves of the unnaturally calm Waking Sea idly hit coastal cliffs.

Tranquility pressing against from everywhere was artificial and emphatic. It didn't bring relief – it intensified vigilance. It forced to careful observation of the surroundings as well as to predicting a potential danger. The concept of _equilibrium_ didn't exist in the lands of the Free Marches; inequality, slavery, too obvious desire for power and possession could be seen everywhere, and yet people tried to find happiness here. Away form the Plague, form the absolute destruction and fear they tried to exist again, since the vision of continuing previous life was too terrifying. How many times, traversing streets of The Lower City, she went by familiar faces, which, meager and colorless, wore this perceptible portion of relief. At this point form of life didn't matter – it was about purely instinctive survival; this, in itself, made happy. A pair of seagulls circled over their heads, squawking hoarsely, and Hawke was still measuring a thoughtful face of a man sitting next to her. There was no distance dividing them. Touching each other arm – they didn't feel embarrassment because of intimate contact, after all they were friends, companions, people who unhindered share with each other heat.

'Anders?' she repeated uncertainly, previously nudging his arm.

He moved his sleepy gaze from a view unfolding before him to the woman, whose face brightened with smile. He blinked, frowned and cleared his throat.

'I'm sorry'

'Do not apologize for thinking' she replied with a friendly hint of irony 'May I know what has distracted you from reality?'

'Ferelden'

At first she didn't respond, because the word that came out from between his lips was sudden, vague and was void of specified form. Only after a moment the expression on Hawke's face has dramatically changed; amusement and warmth has been replaced by an unexpected dryness. Her features have become hostilely sharp, and her lips hastily dropped winning smile. She removed gaze from the man, to angrily throw it against a distant line of the sea horizon. Anders ostentatiously sighed, trying to ease a pulsing sense of guilt. Contrary to appearances, Ferelden didn't cause the woman especially negative emotions. Anger, which suddenly came out was only a product of helplessness. No one else knew what torn Hawke's composed personality; none of their companions had any idea about the longing, the continuing melancholy, the sense of powerlessness, which Marian was fruitlessly struggling with. The foundation of this agitation were memories: Lothering being absorbed by the fire, screams of confused people, throaty laughter of attacking broods, destruction and damage, and eventually the death of Carver. Mainly the loss of her brother caused this unpleasant crush in her throat. Anders didn't have a chance to meet this lad, but from Hawke's stories seemed that only with him she shared this characteristic – because brotherly – bond, only he could understand, support and help her in carrying the gaining in weight burden of responsibility. After momentary hesitance he decided to put hand on the woman's shoulder. He felt that she intuitively tightened muscles under the sudden touch; she didn't spurned his hand, didn't comment on the behavior – she remained silent, obsessively rubbing eyes with a thumb and refraining from tears.

Nobody saw Hawke's loneliness; in family, among comrades, in this dysfunctional society she was opaque separate unit – a foreigner.

'Marian' Anders began quietly, tightening the grip on woman's shoulder. 'I hate when you lock yourself in the past'

'I don't lock myself in the past. I'm running away from it, because I can't fight with it.'

Anders gently leaned back. He pulled his hand from woman's shoulder to help himself hold on uneven surface of the rocky coast.

'Ferelden is a burden which sometimes hinders my breathing. It's a cry, which makes me look back, and at the same time the greatest, gayest and most carefree time of my life. I can't do what you do, I can't select memories. On the other hand, if I had done it I would have had unfilled gap in the heart.' She allowed herself a slight smile.

'The problem is, Hawke, you can't reconcile it.' He glanced at her. She nodded without vigor. 'And it's not true that I select my memories. I just did what I was supposed to do and what I have just said. You have to strike balance.'

Hawke pulled up knees under herself. Lazily put a chin on them and closed her eyes for a moment, hiding a pair of clouded eyes.

'You never mentioned about the past'

'Because you never asked'

'But now I'm asking. So?'

'Sure there must be questions on your mind about the Grey Warden, isn't it?' Anders returned Marian's previous smile.

'Mostly' she answered thoughtfully 'Joining… Is it painful?'

'Bloody'

'So drinking Darkspawn's blood, a strange bond and the Calling are truth?

'Undoubtedly.'

'You're the Grey Warden, despite the fact that you're trying to deny it' she murmured, opening eyes for a moment 'Blood is devastating. It's a poison, it's a destruction sweeping over a human body. The Grey Warden is a premature death.' She glanced over Anders's shoulder. 'That's why you deny belonging to the Wardens, right?'

He didn't answer. With indefinite gaze he measured blackened sky.

'The fear of death is nothing shameful, Anders'

'I do not fear death' he said, as Marian noticed – honestly.

'Then, what are you afraid of?'

The man hesitated saying any words. His hands were shaking, as well as shallowly gasping for air mouth.

'The Calling' he whispered lowering his eyes. The sky was no longer fascinating. 'I'm afraid of the enormity of voices attacking my mind. I'm afraid of descending into forgotten corners of the Deep Roads. I'm afraid… I'm afraid of lonely death and the awareness that I'll never know normal life, drenched with just a little, no matter what, form of happiness.

'How much you've got left?' Hawke asked quietly, as quietly as was Anders's answer.

The voice vibrated. Neither for fear, nor with terror. More likely from uncertainty, which at this moment they've both share. Only now she realized that not only she was carrying an earlier listed burden; this burden didn't have to take a shape of responsibility. It could have been fear, passion, impulse. It could have been any emotion and every attribute, which by unreasonable control strangled and prevented from functioning properly. With careless movement she seized bands of frivolous, honey hair behind her ear. None of them thought of the end, but subconsciously they knew, that it'll come sooner than it should, releasing them from possibility of an experience of a natural lifetime. Constantly pumped adrenaline, rapid breathing and fiery heartbeat or superhuman effort; the fate didn't write them a long script. Nevertheless, words of Anders have liberated from her an untamed compassion. Of course, sometimes he irritated her with his behavior and deviating from the norm sympathy to mages, unsteady character and the other personality in a shape of the unsaturated Spirit of Justice, but only he could hear and read, that between her words there was concealed something much deeper. He responded to a silent cry for help.

'I don't know' he folded his trembling hands together 'However, I do feel that every passing year it's less and less. The voices become more intense.'

Anders knew the mental matter of the Calling wasn't a problem; he was worried about the body, which sometimes refused to work, was crumbling and was blemished. The skin was getting grayish, it looked like tracing paper – he felt veins beneath his fingertips with every subtle touch. The eyes were getting clouded, pupils ceased to be black and slowly were passing in this terrifyingly empty, grayish hue. Contaminations couldn't be cured even with the most advanced medical magic. The contamination was a choice between a glorious or saturated with mediocrity life. The contamination was a choice, which incidentally was taken voluntarily. It is true, that the Grey Warden was considered as an asylum. The decision he made had clearly selfish ground; he didn't have to run from the Templars, he wasn't forced to not using magic. He was considered as a free man. No one discriminated him because of skills. The Grey Warden have given him an authentic, thought temporary, sense of security.

'The Grey Warden is a responsibility, in front of which you cannot run away.' Hawke said under her breath.

'Unfortunately'

He looked surprised at the woman when he felt how her warm hands were embracing his own. After a short time he saw a pair of sparkling, verdigris like eyes, which were shining with unexpected determination and compassion.

'Anders' began on exhaling. She took a deep breath, she more confident squeezed hands of the man with an intention of calming the tremors. 'When you hear the Calling tell me about it. If you leave, I'll be looking for you – and believe me, I'm determined enough; I'll find you. I want you to know that regardless of circumstances I'll follow you and I'll comfort your loneliness.

_Remember: I'll be there, even in stricken with darkness ends of the Deep Roads. We'll welcome the death together._


End file.
